


Life After Life

by ariel2me



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Stannis was sent to foster at the Eyrie, while Robert was sent to court to serve as a royal page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**At the tourney celebrating Aerys II Targaryen’s tenth anniversary on the Iron Throne**

**King’s Landing, 272 AC**

It began, Steffon thought, with Aerys’ master of ships Lucerys Velaryon making a remark about Tywin Lannister’s golden twins.

No, he understood later, it actually began in the king’s own twisted mind, with the king’s unpredictable whim and caprice holding full sway, and most of all, with the king’s determination to humble his Hand, “ _to put Tywin Lannister in his place,_ ” at the forefront.

What could  _not_  be disputed was the fact that before Lord Velaryon made his remark about Jaime and Cersei Lannister, about how Twyin Lannister must be eagerly looking forward to the day when his beautiful twins were old enough to serve at court, Aerys had not been paying the slightest attention to the sons of Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife.

“Your daughter serving as one of our gracious Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, perhaps, as your lady wife once  _served_ , Lord Twyin,” Velaryon continued, laying particular emphasis on the word  _served_ , as if he was deliberately trying to evoke, for everyone listening, the scurrilous old rumors concerning the reason for Lady Joanna’s abrupt dismissal from Queen Rhaella’s  service.

“And your son, of course, as a royal page serving our beloved King, Lord Tywin,” the master of coin interjected. He turned to the king. “That would please Your Grace, would it not, to honor your lord Hand with appointments for his children?” Qarlton Chelsted asked, his voice sounding as fake as the cries of delight coming from a cheap whorehouse.

(“If this is life at court, with all the back-biting, the two-face and the false words, then I am glad that you are well out of it,” Cassana would say to her husband later, in the privacy of their bedchamber. “Do the lords Velaryon and Chelsted believe that the king would set either of them in Lord Tywin’s place, if they whisper enough poison in his ear?”

“Velaryon is proud enough of himself, and of his House, to believe that,” Steffon replied. He still recalled Lucerys Velaryon whispering in his ears during Aerys’ coronation, voicing his disapproval about Tywin’s appointment as Hand of the King.

“Velaryon and Baratheon, those are the Houses most deserving of that honor. Our two Houses have proven our loyalty and leal service to House Targaryen again and again, since the days of Aegon the Conqueror. Who are these Lannisters? They came late to the Conqueror’s cause, and they have not had a rich and long history of serving Targaryen kings as trusted councilors and advisors. Why, your own lord father served as Hand to King Jaehaerys, before his untimely death.”

If he closed his eyes, Steffon could still see, clearly, his father’s face when he read the letter telling him of his appointment as Hand, could still hear the relief in Ormund Baratheon’s voice when he said, “The taint of treason and disloyalty will finally be washed clean from our House. I will serve the king loyally, with my life if need be.”

No, the Baratheons no longer had the right to expect honors from the Iron Throne as a matter of course, as if it was their gods-given rights, as if their affinity with the Targaryens was a settled fact, not after Lyonel Baratheon’s failed rebellion. His father had taught Steffon that when Steffon was a boy still. “Grandson to the king sitting on the Iron Throne you might be, Steffon, but never forget, you are also the grandson of the man who once took arms against that king. Even if your royal grandsire wishes not to dwell on it, there are plenty of lords who would be eager to remind him - and us - of that fact.”

No doubt Velaryon was whispering in the ears of other lords that the king’s own cousin was not deserving of the honor of serving as his Hand either, owing to the taint of treason in his Baratheon blood; at the same time he was trying to rile Steffon into envy and jealousy over Tywin Lannister’s appointment.

 _How many faces do you have, my lord? And which is the true one? Or perhaps do you not know yourself?_  Steffon pondered, staring at Lucerys Velaryon intently, while saying nothing himself.  

Irritated with Steffon’s silence, Lord Velaryon sniffed, returning Steffon’s gaze with a look that seemed to imply –  _the Laughing Storm would not have stood for any kind of insult to his House’s honor, unlike his feckless grandson._ “Of course, you are very young still, Lord Steffon,” he said, in a tone of mock kindly understanding.

True, Steffon was only a youth of sixteen at the time, but he had been the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands for two years by then, and was a new father to boot, so he did not appreciate Lucerys Velaryon condescending to him as if he was a foolish, callow child.)

Back at the Anniversary Tourney, Aerys frowned hearing Lord Chelsted’s question. “I have no need for screaming babes still suckling on their mother’s breasts at court,” he scoffed. No matter that Jaime and Cersei Lannister were children six years of age, no longer babes-in-arms.

It was then, at this exact moment, that the king’s gaze fastened on his cousin, and the two sons with him.

“How old is your older boy, Steffon?” Aerys asked.  

“Ten, Your Grace.”

 “Of course. He was born the year of my coronation. That is a good sign. A very good sign, do you not think, my lord Hand?” Aerys asked, glancing sharply at Tywin Lannister, as if daring him to disagree.

“It certainly is, Your Grace,” Tywin replied, his voice flat, his face inscrutable.

 _How do you do it?_  Steffon wondered.  _How do you withstand slight after slight, insult on top of insult?_  

(“Because Tywin Lannister still holds the true rein of power, despite the king’s vicious words, despite all the slights heaped on him,” Lucerys Velaryon would say. In fact, many would say the same.

Years ago, when they were boys together in King’s Landing, when he, Aerys and Tywin had been inseparable, Tywin had told them the answer. “Anger should be a weapon, a strength we harness to achieve a purpose, not a weakness that brought us low,” Tywin had said, after Steffon was punished for impulsively striking another royal page who had been mocking Argella Baratheon for “ _not being pretty enough to wed Prince Duncan_.”)

“My cousin’s son will make the perfect royal page,” Aerys announced.

That was the last thing Steffon wanted for Robert, for any of his sons. This king was nothing like the king Steffon served as a royal page, the wise and kindly King Aegon, Fifth of His Name, Steffon’s own grandsire. This king was nothing like the boy Steffon once knew, the cousin he once cherished like a brother he had always wished for.  

“Robert is being fostered at the Vale, Your Grace,” Steffon quickly replied. “Lord Arryn has been generous enough to take my son as his ward.” Robert had come to King’s Landing from the Vale with Lord Arryn and Eddard Stark, the other ward. Lord Stark had not made the long journey from the North to attend King Aerys’ Anniversary Tourney, so the Stark boy had been in the company of Lord Arryn while Robert was reunited with his family. 

“How long has that been the case?” Aerys asked, sounding wroth. “Why was I not told beforehand?”

 “It has been a year, Your Grace. And I did mention it in a letter,” Steffon replied, carefully.

“Letters!” Aerys scoffed. “You should have told me yourself. You should have taken your boys to court more often, for that matter.”

“Perhaps Lord Steffon’s younger son could be raised to that position, Your Grace, in place of his older brother,” Lucerys Velaryon interjected with a suggestion Steffon was not at all grateful for. “The boy still resides at Storm’s End, does he not, Lord Steffon?”

That suggestion only served to raise Aerys’ ire even more. “His  _younger_  son? Why should Lord Arryn be given the privilege of molding my cousin’s heir into a man, while the king is reduced to second sons, to second best?”

 _Second best_. Through the corner of his eyes, Steffon could see Stannis biting his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood.

“I am certain Lord Arryn would not object to the king conferring this honor to young Robert Baratheon,” Qarlton Chelsted interjected, his voice as smooth as silk. “Unless …“ here he frowned, pretending to hesitate, “unless of course this alliance matters so very much to Lord Baratheon and Lord Arryn?”

Jon Arryn quickly asserted himself. “To serve in Your Grace’s court is indeed a great honor for anyone. I would be very pleased for Robert if he is granted this honor,” he said, with a slight bow. 

“Do you not mind me depriving you of your ward, Lord Arryn?” Aerys asked.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Jon Arryn replied. “Of course, the matter should be settled between Your Grace and Lord Baratheon, as Robert’s father.”

 Ignoring the second part of Jon Arryn’s reply, Aerys declared, “Well, it is settled then. Robert Baratheon will be my newest royal page. Stand up, child. Are you not grateful for this honor?”

Robert stood up without prodding from his father, a tall and broad-chested boy, looking older and stronger than his ten years. “I am most grateful, Your Grace,” Robert replied, with his most winning smile.

Aerys looked very pleased with himself. Steffon was outraged. Aerys had decided, almost on a whim, and that was _that_. It was clear that Aerys only wanted his cousin’s son at court as another mean by which he could spite, and slight, his Hand.  _Not your son, but Steffon’s son._

Robert was  _his_  son. Shouldn’t Steffon have a say in the fate of his own heir?

There was not a good way to refuse a king without risking suspicions, even with a kindly king, his father had said. When Steffon’s royal grandfather had asked that he was sent to court, his father and mother had not been able to refuse. And King Aegon had not been as unpredictable as Aerys, not as changeable, and yes - Steffon would say it now, if only to himself - as  _dangerous_.

“I have a mind to speak to the king in his solar,” Steffon grumbled to Jon Arryn later. “My son is not a plaything for him to do as he wishes, a pawn in whatever game he is playing with his Hand.”

Clearing his throat, Jon Arryn said, quietly and carefully, “Are you certain it is wise to challenge the king on this matter? No doubt you know His Grace better than I do, Lord Steffon, being both his cousin as well as his close companion for many years. But these bonds of blood and friendship … sadly, in my experience, I find that they do not mean as much when one is king and the other is not. If you refuse this honor for Robert, there is no telling what the king might do in his wrath.”

It was an echo of the reminder his own father had given Steffon.

“Of course,” Jon Arryn continued, “our bond of friendship could still be honored in another way, now that Robert will be leaving my care. I would be honored to foster your son Stannis at the Vale. And I give you my solemn word, Lord Steffon, that your Stannis would not be treated any differently from Robert, or from my other ward Ned Stark. And Ned knows what it is like to be a second son too, of course. Perhaps he and Stannis will be able to form a close bond through that.”

That reminded Steffon of the king’s cruel and tactless remark.  _Second best_.  _Second son_. His heart hardened against Aerys even more.

**_________________________**

“And what does the  _wise_  and  _kindly_  Lord Arryn want?” Cassana asked, after Jon Arryn left. “Our other son to replace the one the king has taken from him?”

She was wary of Jon Arryn, almost as much as she was wary of the king. He came across as so  _reasonable_ , Lord Arryn, the voice of reason and moderation, always ready with his calm counsel and sensible advice. Cassana worried that her husband was leaving himself too susceptible to Lord Arryn’s influence, finding in this older man who was always so free and so generous with his advice - about being a lord, about being a father, even about what it meant to be a man - a father figure to make up for the real father he had lost too early in life.

“You have decided, haven’t you?” She asked her husband, dreading his answer.

Steffon nodded. “It will be good for Stannis,” he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince them both of that fact.  

**_________________________**

Robert had seemed so bold, so self-assured in front of the king; Steffon was surprised to find him fretting later that day.

“Could Ned come too, Father? To be a royal page with me.”

Steffon shook his head. “No, Robert. The king appointed only you, not Ned Stark.”

“Maybe if you ask the king, Father,” Robert said eagerly. “I heard some of the lords saying that the king loves his cousin very much, even saying that His Grace should have raised his own blood high, not a lion from Casterly Rock. If you ask His Grace to appoint Ned a royal page –“

“You must not listen to rumors and gossips, Robert,” Steffon admonished his son sternly. Then, softening his expression, with his hands squeezing Robert’s shoulders, he tried to reassure the boy, “It will be fine, truly. You will make plenty of new friends, and it will be a great adventure.” Robert perked up considerably hearing about  _adventure_ , but the words sounded hollow to Steffon’s own ears.

He had been reduced to this – a father who lied to his children. How disappointed his own father would have been.

 “Would Lord Arryn be happy, to have me as a replacement for Robert?” Stannis asked, frowning.  

That word,  _replacement_. Steffon’s mother had used that word. “I was the replacement Targaryen. My father had promised the crown prince, the heir to the throne, for House Baratheon. But he could only deliver his youngest daughter,” Rhaelle Targaryen had said, bitterly.

“You are  _not_  a replacement, Stannis,” Steffon insisted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {JON ARRYN}, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Hand of the King, recently deceased,
> 
> • his first wife, {LADY JEYNE, of House Royce}, died in childbed, her daughter stillborn,
> 
> • his second wife, {LADY ROWENA, of House Arryn}, his cousin, died of a winter chill, childless,
> 
> ~ (A Game of Thrones, Appendix)
> 
> In the annals of Westeros, 281 AC is known as the Year of the False Spring. Winter had held the land in its icy grip for close on two years, but now at last the snows were melting, the woods were greening, the days were growing longer.
> 
> ~ (The World of Ice and Fire)
> 
> It’s not clear from canon when Jon Arryn’s second wife died, but for the purpose of this fic, let’s assume that Lady Rowena Arryn was still alive in 272 AC, and she died of winter chill some time during the two years of winter preceding the Year of False Spring.

How quiet the Eyrie seemed, without the sound of laughing boys filling its halls. Elbert was at Strongsong visiting his mother’s family, and Ned had been quiet and withdrawn ever since his return from King’s Landing. At first, Rowena had not been alarmed, or even surprised, when her husband returned to the Eyrie with only one boy in tow, after departing accompanied by two. Robert had been eagerly chattering about reuniting with his mother and father in King’s Landing, and Rowena had immediately assumed that Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife wished for the boy to return with them to Storm’s End for a visit. After all, Robert had only been back to visit his home once, since his arrival at the Eyrie a year ago.

But that did not explain the mournful look on Ned’s face, or Jon’s troubled countenance. Others would have missed it, Rowena knew, would have thought that Lord Arryn looked as calm and as unperturbed as he always was, but Rowena knew better. They had not been married for close to twenty years for nothing.

When he told her the news, she gasped. “Poor Robert. Our poor, poor boy,” she said, her head filled with images of the boy with the laughing eyes and joyful disposition, her eyes brimming with tears. King’s Landing was a nest of vipers, Jon had said often enough. Would it sour Robert, make him bitter and grasping, turn him into a stranger?    

Jon took her hand, gently. His eyes were brimming with unspoken words. She knew them well enough, by now.

 _Not our boy, my love_. A ward. She knew that, of course. Really, she  _did_. How silly of Jon, to think that she needed reminding.

Robert  _Baratheon_ , not Robert Arryn. There was supposed to be a Jasper Arryn, named after Jon’s lord father, but that never came to pass either.     

“It is foolish of me to pity Robert, of course,” Rowena said, making a gesture as if to laugh at her own foolishness. “It is a great honor after all, to be appointed a royal page. We should be rejoicing for Robert. His father and mother must be very proud.”

 “More troubled than proud, I should say,” Jon replied. He sighed, but so quietly that to others, it might have sounded like just another exhalation, another release of breath. But not to his wife.

“Tell me,” she said, her hand reaching out to brush her husband’s cheek. “Tell me everything.”  

She had known him all her life. He had held her in his arms when he was a boy of six and she a babe scarcely two weeks old. He had sneaked her past her nurses, past all the guards, when she was seven and begging him to show her the Moon Door. His hand had clasped her fingers tightly. “Don’t look down,” Jon had warned his little cousin.

“I’m not afraid,” Rowena had replied, and she had been telling the truth. How could she be afraid with her strong, brave cousin by her side? They could fly out the Moon Door and she would  _still_  not be afraid, as long as they were together, as long as he never left her.

Six years gap in age was almost nothing now, when they were both getting on, when her hair was greying as rapidly as his own. But back then, six years was a  _lifetime_. When Jon was eighteen and looking for a bride, Rowena was only twelve, a girl not yet flowered.

“I am to be married soon,” he told her, with a smile on his face, blithely unaware that he was breaking her heart, upending her life.

Rowena wept, when Jon cloaked Jeyne Royce with his moon-and-falcon embroidered cloak. She should have been born earlier, or Jon should have been born later. Why should sweet, simpering Jeyne be the one to wed him?

_I loved him first!_

Why were the gods so  _cruel_?   

Later, Rowena wept tears of guilt when Jeyne died in childbed. Had she not prayed and lit candles after candles, night after night? Prayed that Jon would look at her as more than just his little cousin, prayed that when he looked at her next, he would see a woman grown, a woman worthy of his love.  

But she did not mean for Jeyne to die! She had never prayed for that.  _Never_. She would swear it by all the gods old and new.

 _(Foolish child_ , the woman with grey hair scoffed at her younger self.  _Would  Jon have looked at you at all, if his lady wife was still alive? What did you think you were praying for, back then?)_

And then Jon  _did_  look at her, and he saw a woman grown.  _I will give him sons_ , she vowed.  _And daughters too, all living_ ,  _not stillborns, not dead._

 _Forgive me, Jeyne_. She would name her first daughter Jeyne, Rowena promised. But there had been no daughters, and certainly no sons, not even stillborns. Her pregnancies always ended before her belly had grown big enough for people to notice that a baby was coming. The agony of the blood, the pain, the cramps; it was all nothing compared to the agony of knowing that yet again, a life had been snuffed out in her womb.  

Her moonblood ceased some years ago, and she knew well enough what that meant. She would never give Jon a child.  _I love him so, and he loves me, in his own way. Why could we not make a child, a living child, with all that love?_

Why were the gods so  _cruel_?

It did not matter, Jon kept telling her. “There is Elbert. He is my heir.” A nephew, not a son. A brother’s son, not heir of his own body.  

“And what if something happens to Elbert?”

“There is still Denys, and when he marries, his children after him, Arryns all,” Jon replied.

Lady Baratheon had been blessed with two strapping, healthy sons. And then there was Lady Stark, with her three sons and one daughter. Why them, and not her? She would have loved her children just as much, would have been as good a mother as these women.

Why were the gods so  _cruel_?

But Lady Stark had died in childbed, like Jeyne Royce. Once again, Rowena was struck with guilt for harboring envy, resentment and bitterness in her heart.

She would write to Lady Baratheon, Rowena resolved. Lady Baratheon’s elder son was going to King’s Landing and her younger boy was coming to the Eyrie, and while ‘ _gone_ ’ was certainly not the same as dead, and while a child being away from home was nowhere close to actually losing a child, it would not be easy either, Rowena thought.

After all, she had spent years grieving for her lost children, none of whom had ever grown beyond clots of blood or clumps of flesh, as the maesters kept telling her.  

**________________________**

The letter from Lady Arryn had been a surprise. She had never written to Cassana, not before Robert was sent to the Eyrie, and not later when Robert was already there. Jon Arryn had written; long missives reassuring Steffon and Cassana about Robert’s well-being and progress, as well as other letters deemed for Lord Baratheon’s eyes only, which her husband assured Cassana was not about their son at all. 

Rowena Arryn wrote to Cassana about the pain of separation, about a mother missing her children, about the sacred bond between mother and child that even the most kindly and well-meaning husbands and fathers could never hope to understand.     

 _Why should she presume to lecture me about those things? She has no children of her own,_  Cassana rebelled. Lady Arryn’s letter veered too close for comfort to Jon Arryn and his earnest and yes, perhaps even  _well-meaning_ , presumption that because he was some years older than Steffon, his advice and counsel should be more than welcomed by Lord Baratheon.

Was she being unkind, and overly suspicious?After reading the letter for the fourth time, Cassana finally concluded that it was more an awkward attempt at offering comfort, rather than an imperious lecture on motherhood that she first took it to be.

She had the letter from Rowena Arryn in her hand still, as she watched Stannis packing the last of his things in the various trunks and chests to be taken to the Eyrie. It was a scene already familiar to Cassana, not only from Robert’s departure from Storm’s End, but also from her brother’s departure from Greenstone.

Their mother had been brusque and short with Lomas, supervising his packing, making sure that he had not forgotten anything. (Her tears came later, after her son had departed. Cassana was the only one who witnessed it, and even then by accident, when she entered her mother’s bedchamber without knocking.)

“Why can’t the servants do my packing?” Lomas had grumbled.

“The servants at Storm’s End are not there to do your bidding,” Mother had snapped.

“But I’m not at Storm’s End yet. I’m still at home,” Lomas protested.

A squire was little more than a highborn servant, Mother had warned Lomas, and he had better get used to that. This, at the same time when their father was busily boasting to anyone listening that his son would be serving as Lord Ormund Baratheon’s squire, and what a great honor it was for Lomas and for the Estermonts.

Lomas had been present at Storm’s End the day Steffon left for King’s Landing to serve his royal grandsire as a page. Steffon was only seven at the time, even younger than Robert was when he went to the Eyrie, and younger than Stannis was now. “Such a brave boy,” Lomas had told Cassana. “He shed no tears at all, and he only looked back  _once_.”

His mother must have cried, Cassana thought. But later, only later, when the boy was already out of sight, and there was no possibility of him seeing her tears, hearing her sobs.

Stannis had paused in his packing. “Is this too much?” He asked, pointing at the various trunks and chests. They were nowhere near as numerous as Robert’s had been, when he left for the Eyrie. “Father said no horse or wagon can get to the Eyrie. We must ride mules from the Gates of the Moon, and then climb on foot for the last part of the journey, where the path is too steep even for a mule to pass.”

“I’m sure they have strong mules.”

“But what about the climb on foot?“

“There is a basket to draw supplies up to the Eyrie. Your trunks will ride up in that.” Robert had told his mother this. He had also added, laughing, “Maybe Stannis would like to ride up in the basket too, with the bread and the ale.”

“Don’t be unkind to your brother, Robert,” Cassana had said, sharply, not for the first time, and not for the last, she expected. It would ease her mind, in truth, if her younger son was to ride up in that basket instead of risking his life climbing a steep path to the Eyrie. But when Steffon took Robert to the Eyrie, Robert had insisted on climbing the path alongside his father and the men-at-arms accompanying them. Stannis would stubbornly insist on climbing the path too, like his brother did, Cassana knew full well.

She sighed. Her husband had no sibling at all, while Cassana had no sisters, only brothers whose path in life was always fated to be completely different than hers, on account of what they had between their legs. What did they know about sibling rivalry after all, Steffon and Cassana?

She had envied her brothers many things, true, but she had always known it would never be hers, the various paths and choices, not to mention freedom, available for her brothers, for men in general. She had learned to resign herself to that, to pretend to accept it, in her words and her deeds at least, if not in her hearts of heart. You could not sup on bitterness and envy after all, and she must make a life for herself, as best she could.

But for Stannis, who was a boy, just like his brother, who would grow to be a man, just like his brother, Cassana suspected that Stannis would never allow himself to be resigned to anything.

How would the people at the Eyrie accept Stannis, after Robert? Here was the younger brother, quieter, more solemn, certainly not as boisterous, definitely seeming less friendly than his older brother, and with a streak of stubbornness that came across as sullenness instead of determination to those who did not know him well. Comparison was inevitable, no matter what assurances Jon Arryn had given about never treating Stannis as “second-best.” After all, she and Steffon had tried their best, and still Stannis felt the burden of his brother’s looming shadow.

She could tell her son, “Words are wind, they could not hurt you,” until the end of her days, but she knew that to be a great big lie. Strong wind could gather into a storm ferocious enough to sink a ship after all, ferocious enough to destroy a castle. And words, well, words could be sharp enough to cut a man to the core, let alone a young boy.

 _Every child is different_ , her mother had told Cassana.  _What works for one child might not work with another._

 _You never warned me how different, Mother,_ Cassana implored, to the mother who was long dead.   

And that reminded Cassana of her fear for Robert. Robert had always been the star, the undisputed center of attention, in Storm’s End, in the Eyrie too, it seemed, with Ned Stark being a quieter boy in Stannis’ mold. That would not be the case in King’s Landing. Royal pages and royal squires occupied very coveted positions, with many a highborn lord fighting for these positions for their sons and brothers, for their heirs. The honor of their House was at stake, not to mention the advantages that could accrue to these boys later in life, should they grow close to the king, or to Prince Rhaegar. It was a constant jostling for primacy, a never-ending battle for favors and advantages.   

How would Robert fare, when he was not, inevitably, by default, the brightest sun shining in the room? Would he be angry? Would he sulk and pine for home? Or would he follow the lead of others to fight for favors and advantages? None of those choices was a welcoming thought to Cassana.

But perhaps it would be good for Robert. Robert would learn not to take things too much for granted, not to assume that he would always be able to have his way easily in life through his natural charm. He would learn to strive and struggle, as his younger brother had always strived and struggled.

But what kind of a mother would want her child to struggle? Cassana was horrified at her own thought.

 _The kind who wants her son to not only survive in this world, but to live a good life, to be a good man_ , she answered her own doubting self.     


	3. Chapter 3

_Command of the host was given to Lord Ormund, as King’s Hand. In 260 AC, his lordship landed Targaryen armies upon three of the Stepstones, and the War of the Ninepenny Kings turned bloody. [...] Lord Ormund Baratheon, the Westerosi commander, was amongst the first to perish. Cut down by the hand of Maelys the Monstrous, he died in the arms of his son and heir, Steffon Baratheon._

_(The World of Ice and Fire)_

_Bawling, strong, one hour old, plucked from the cradle: he kissed the infant's fluffy skull and said, I shall be as tender to you as my father was not to me. For what's the point of breeding children, if each generation does not improve on what went before?_

_(Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel)_

**_______________________**

**The Stepstones, 260 AC**

 

The young man had blood on his face. His father’s blood, Jon Arryn thought at first, until he saw the deep gash running down Steffon Baratheon’s cheek.

“Best get a maester to tend to that wound, Lord Baratheon.”

The eyes that rose to meet Jon’s gaze were red-rimmed but dry. “My father is dead,” came the reply, in a voice dulled with pain.

 _I know, lad._  “I was not addressing your lord father.”

The new Lord of Storm’s End closed his eyes and lowered his head as if in silent prayer, but he did not flinch at the reminder. He knew, of course. He had always known, even if the knowledge had failed him for a brief moment. This was a young man trained to duty and inheritance, like Jon Arryn himself had been, with the added burden of being an only child.

The old Lord of Storm’s End – Lord Ormund of House Baratheon, he who had been Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Hand of the King, commander of the king’s army, husband to the old king’s daughter, father to the old king’s grandson – he was now past pain, past everything. He was tall, as the Baratheons were wont to be, but not as tall or as sturdy and large in build as his lord father had been in his prime. The Laughing Storm had been an unforgettable, imposing figure; larger than life, more a myth than a man to many, although he must have seemed real enough to his own son, who had to tread in his everlasting shadow.

 _Lord Boremund was stone, hard and strong and unmoving_ , Septon Eustace had written of the Baratheons in his history of the Dance of the Dragons,  _while his son Lord Borros was the wind, raging and howling and blowing this way and that._

Lord Lyonel had been a force of nature, while his son the wall trying to withstand it.

And what of Lord Ormund’s only son and heir? Only four-and-ten and not yet a knight, kneeling beside his father’s body in his father’s tent, hands clasped together, at present looking as meek and mild as a pious septon. But earlier, it had taken the strength of four men to pry him away from his father’s body and force him to safety, away from the still-raging battle. (It would not do to lose  _two_  Lords Baratheon in one day, Jon had seen at once, especially if the second one was the king’s own nephew.)

It had taken Jon’s own harsh words whispered in his ear about the peril and the utter irresponsibility of abandoning his duty to his people to prevent Steffon Baratheon from taking chase after the man who slew his father - Maelys the Monstrous himself, looking more than worthy of that disreputable name.

He was black of hair, this new Lord of Storm’s End, as the Baratheons were wont to be. His eyes were not the deep, dark blue of his father’s, nor were they the violet purplish hue of his mother’s; they were some strange combination of colors that seemed to shimmer and alter in shade with the change in his expression.

Hands still clasped together, looking uncertainly at Jon Arryn, Steffon said, “Will you pray with me, Lord Arryn? For my father. I could not seem to remember the words, though we prayed together this very morning, my lord father and I, before the start of battle.”  _How foolish of me_ , the ashamed look on Steffon’s face seemed to be saying,  _how utterly foolish and absurd, to forget something you have known almost all your life._

“I shall be honored,” Jon replied, kneeling beside Steffon.  

They prayed for the Mother’s mercy for Ormund Baratheon, and for the Father Above to judge Steffon’s father justly. Steffon’s warm hand grasped his father’s cold one. “Pray gods I will be as wise a lord as you have been, Father. As good a man. As … as -” his voice almost breaking, he paused for a long while, before continuing, steadier now, “-as loving a father.”

He kissed his father’s brow, gently. “He was tender to me, the way his own father was not to him,” Steffon said to Jon, afterwards. “I did not know to value it for a long time. I did not know any better, I took it for granted as my rightful due as his son, until I was old enough to understand that not all fathers treated their children in that manner.”

He paused again, a troubled expression crossing his face. “Though, near the end, my father was apprehensive that he had failed me. He confided that to my mother before we left for the Stepstones. He was worried that he had failed me by sheltering me too much from the true ways and vagaries of the world. I think he feared that I am too soft, too trusting, though he had not put it so bluntly. He feared that he had done worse for me than his own father had done for  _his_ children, even as harsh and unyielding as my grandfather had been to them.” 

Jon Arryn stared at Steffon’s face, looking for the trace of Ormund Baratheon’s fear for his son. The young man did not lack courage, there was no denying that. He had acquitted himself well in battle, before his father was struck down, and Jon even admired his grim if somewhat reckless determination after his father was slain. As for being too trusting, that still remained to be seen.

It was a thing often repeated generations after generations. A son, promising to himself that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father, and then either repeating those same mistakes nonetheless, or, in his eagerness and desperation to avoid them, committing other mistakes of his own, perhaps even graver ones.

_I shall be as tender to you as my father was not to me._

_I shall not be as my father was,_  that was a refrain echoed by numerous sons throughout the ages.  _I shall be different. I shall be better._  ‘Different’ might not be so hard to achieve, but ‘better’ was not always a certainty.

Steffon Baratheon had not been making that same exhortation, though. He had prayed not to be different or better than his father, but  _as good_. As wise a lord, as good a man, as loving a father.

Perhaps Ormund Baratheon had not done so ill by his son after all, Jon thought.

_What do you know, truly? The man who is not a father himself, who has never been a father, might never be a father to the end of his days._

Jon ignored the mocking voice in his own head.

He placed his hand on top of Steffon’s hand, which was still grasping  _his_  father’s hand.

“I’m afraid,” Steffon confided, in a low voice.  

“That is good. Fear is good. It shows that you are not a fool. Only a fool is too stupid and too reckless to know when it is time to fear.”

“And it is definitely time to fear?”

 “With everything you have riding on your shoulders, I would say, yes, definitely,” Jon replied.

“Fear is a foe to be conquered and triumphantly vanquished, his own father had told my father. But I think for my father, fear was his constant companion,” Steffon said.

“But that never stopped him from being the man that he was.”

Steffon nodded. He rose from his kneeling position, and Jon rose with him, their hands still clasped together. “I shall have to write to my mother, and to the stormlords,” Steffon said. His grieving would be private, his tears would be shed out of sight of any man, Jon suspected. But that _this_  particular son would cry for his beloved father, Jon did not doubt at all.

“Thank you, Lord Arryn. You have done me a great service today. I shall never forget it.”

**______________________**

**Storm’s End, 272 AC**

“You won’t forget, won’t you? About my letter?”

“Of course I won’t,” Stannis replied, indignantly. This was the  _fifth_  time Robert had reminded him about that letter, the one to be given to Ned Stark. “When have I ever forgotten anything?”

Robert shrugged.

Stannis always remembered. He remembered what the king said, word for word. “ _Why should Lord Arryn be given the privilege of molding my cousin’s heir into a man, while the king is reduced to second sons, to second best?”_  He even remembered the king’s tone, sneering and hurt at the same time, like a sulking little boy. But the king was not a little boy, he was a grown man, like Father, even if he behaved even worse than Robert ever did on his naughtiest days.

 _The trouble is, you cannot send a king to bed without his supper, or take away his riding privileges,_  Mother had said to Father.

At first, Robert had been full of enthusiasm. “I won’t be a page for long, only a year or two, you’ll see. And then I will be made a squire. The king’s squire.”

“Or Prince Rhaegar’s,” Mother said.

“But being the king’s squire is much better than being the prince’s squire,” Robert declared. “Isn’t that right, Father?”

“It depends on the king,” Mother said under her breath, but only Stannis seemed to have heard her. 

These days, though, Robert was talking less and less about what a privilege it was being chosen by the king, and more and more about how much he would miss the Eyrie. You would think he had spent  _ten_  whole years there, instead of just one. 

But Stannis also remembered what Father had said. “Robert is going to a new place too, just like you, Stannis.” So he told his brother, “I won’t forget your letter. I promise.”

Robert nodded, looking almost grateful. Then, he immediately ruined it. “And don’t you  _dare_  try to read it!”

“Why would I want to read your  _stupid_  letter?” Judging from Robert’s letters home, Stannis could even guess its content.

_How are you? I am fine. The weather is fine. We went hunting today, and yesterday too._

But the letter to Ned Stark seemed to have more words in it. Robert had labored for many, many hours over it, even going to the extraordinary length of asking his brother how to spell certain long words.

Robert had wanted to go with Stannis and their father to the Eyrie. “So I can say my farewell properly,” he had said.

“You already said your farewell to Lord Arryn and Ned Stark before we left King’s Landing,” Stannis reminded him.

Robert glared at Stannis. “There are other people, too. There’s Lady Rowena, and Elbert, and Ser Denys and –“ Robert continued on and on.  

Father had seemed ready to allow Robert to go with them, at first. But then Mother gave him  _that_  look, that particular look, and then Father said, “Let me think on it.” But Stannis thought he knew what it really meant:  _I will discuss it with your mother._  That was  _usually_  the case, when Mother gave Father that look, that particular smile, with that particular way of calling her husband’s name. Mother would never say anything to dispute Father in front of others, but they would discuss it later in their bedchamber, sometimes heatedly, but more often not.

The next day, Father told Robert he would not be coming with them to the Eyrie after all. “You will be leaving for King’s Landing soon. And you have been away from home for a year before this. Don’t you want to spend some time in Storm’s End, with your mother?”

“But Mother is coming with us when we go to King’s Landing,” Robert said, giving Mother his biggest, most winning smile. “And Father, you said yourself that you and Mother might be staying in court for a while. So we’ll have plenty of time to be together. Otherwise, of course I would not want to leave you again so soon, Mother. I love you so very _dearly_.”

Robert said things like that easily, without embarrassment. Stannis would have felt too ill-at-ease.

Mother smiled, but her reply was not encouraging. “It’s not just about spending time with your mother, Robert. You should spend some time in Storm’s End. After all, you will be Lord of Storm’s End one day.”

“But that won’t be for  _years_  and  _years_ ,” Robert said.

Father was only four years older than Robert when he became Lord of Storm’s End.

But that was different. There was a war. That’s why Grandfather Ormund died. There was not a war now.

**____________________**

Cassana’s reason had partly been the one she told Robert, but there was also another reason, for her younger son’s sake.

“It’s not like they’ll forget about Robert completely if he’s not there,” Steffon had countered.

“True, but at least Robert is not present and looming beside him, for the comparison to be made from the start,” Cassana replied.

“ _They are brothers. It will happen all their lives. They will have to learn to deal with it, sooner or later._   You were the one who often reminded me of that.”

“I know,” Cassana said, sighing. She had thought her husband much too lenient with their sons; that  _she_  had to be the one stiffening his resolve when it came to their boys. But her own resolve was weakening, this one time.

Her thought turned to that other vexing matter. “Are we really staying on at court?”

“Aerys hinted at it. Jon said if I show any inclination, the king might leap at the chance to offer me a place in the Small Council.”

“Is this truly only about keeping Robert safe? Or do you suddenly harbor ambition to take Tywin Lannister’s place, seeing the cracks that have opened up in their relationship?”

Steffon looked hurt. “Do you really believe that of me? Do you know me so little by now? Or do you think the man you love has changed so much?”

“I fear Lord Arryn’s ambition for you, more than I fear your own.”

He kissed her brow. “There is no ambition, for anything, on Jon’s part or mine.” He kissed her cheek. “I only want to keep our sons safe.” He kissed her lips. “And our other children, should they come.”

**____________________**

Robert handed the gloves to Father with as much ceremony he could muster, already practicing his royal page posture. “Safe return, Father,” he said, bowing slightly.  

Stannis and his mother had already hugged and said their farewell in his bedchamber. In the courtyard, Mother only kissed the top of his head lightly, before letting him go, quickly.

Stannis held out his hand to Robert. “Have a safe journey to King’s Landing.”

Robert laughed. He took Stannis’ hand as if to shake it, but then, he folded his younger brother into an embrace instead. “It’s fine to be afraid,” he said. “I was a little afraid at first, leaving home for the first time. Only  _a little_ , mind you, not a lot. It will be great at the Eyrie, you’ll see.”

Usually Stannis would be outraged. “I’m not afraid!” he would have exclaimed. But this time, he only nodded.

And then it was time to leave. “Wave to your mother,” Father said. Stannis waved.

And then they were moving forward. He wanted to look back, _really_  wanted to, but he resisted the urge. “You can look back, there is nothing wrong with that,” Father said, gently. He was grateful to Father for saying that, but he did not look back, not once.


End file.
